Three Fabulous Poems by Lynn White

 

The Crimea Pass

 

It was opened at the time of the Crimean War.

This does not seem to be a legend.

Though probably it was not built by Russian prisoners

who left their boots behind.

This does seem to be a legend.

After all this is North Wales and ours is the land of legends

and we all know that the pub at the summit 

served ale on Sunday lock-ins right up to time

when the purple dragon was sent to burn it down to nothing.

Only pine trees remain 

miraculously unscathed

to mark the spot forever.

 

And as for the dragon, he found a mate

with our native red and made happy families

in a slate cavern for many years.

But when the time was right

the still angry drinkers

raised their glasses

to cast a spell

which transformed all the dragons.

Changed them into the rhododendrons

which grow like pink and purple miracles,

breaths of dragon fire colouring the slate tips.

It’s something to ponder when you pass over the Crimea in springtime.

 

The Fallen Ones

 

It’s not falling that’s the problem 

the falling’s okay.

It’s the landing that’s the problem.

Splat!

Or 

splash!

That’s not okay.

 

But just suppose

the ground opens up,

or the water parts

to let them through, 

the falling ones,

those lucky ones

who will enter

a new world

under the land,

beneath the water,

what will lie ahead 

for those fallen ones

who are expecting a soft landing,

who thought they were the lucky ones.

 

I doubt they anticipated meeting the Furies,

didn’t anticipate their judgment

so they’re still not ready 

to to take their place 

in the underworld,

still not ready

for the eternal torment ahead.

 

There was no soft landing for them.

Luck had run out for the fallen ones.

 

A Hair’s Breadth

 

I can see it  there

hanging by a thread,

the key to the universe

the secrets of mice and men

and I’m just a hair’s breadth away,

a hair’s breadth.

But the closer I move

it stays the same,

hanging there

on a thread

still just a hair’s breadth away.

Like the end of a rainbow

always out of reach

so I can never unlock

its door,

never discover 

its secrets.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes. Find Lynn at:

https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/